Double or Nothing
by My Misguided Fairytale
Summary: There is no reason to think they can win. Ryuuji deals in games, and he knows the odds. / Bondageshipping, Ryuuji x Dark Marik


Double or Nothing

Genres: Suspense, Drama

Summary: There is no reason to think they can win. Ryuuji deals in games, and he knows the odds. None of this is real. / Bondageshipping, Ryuuji x Dark Marik. A "Zorc wins" AU.

A/N: Written for the YGO Fanfiction Contest, Season 8, Round Twelve. The pairing is Bondageshipping (Dark Marik x Ryuuji), and this story is a post-canon (specifically, post Season 5) AU. I subscribe to the belief that Marik suffers from dissociative identity disorder, so it is really only one person, and that "Dark Marik" is his alter (so, my approach to writing the two of them is fairly similar to my approach in _Question and Answer_, in that Italics represent Marik's thoughts and unquoted text represents the alter's). The story also contains some language and slight gore.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Double or Nothing**_

None of this is real. Marik figures this out very quickly, as he stands in one of Cairo's busiest streets, watching people walk past him in either direction in a seemingly endless stream of movement and action. He is inert, staring at his hands, and wondering for a moment who he is and what he is doing here. The first comes to him swiftly; he is _Marik_, and the information is rushed into his brain along with a slew of dark images from a darker room within a tomb, and the glittering of candlelight off of knives. With the images brings pain, and the pain helps to clarify his mind, which is stuck as though filled with cotton. He glances down at his shoes, and flexes his feet within them. Perhaps, instead, his mind is filled with sand.

The second question is much more difficult to answer. He does not remember how he came to be in Cairo—yet he knows he is in Cairo, he recognizes the streets even though he does not understand _how_ he recognizes them—but a tiny voice, whispering in his ear, seems to answer his questions.

Dear me, and you've forgotten so soon? he says. That Zorc really did a number on you, didn't he? You're so lucky to have _me_, Marik.

The shock at hearing the voice, so long forgotten, steels him into a further state of immobility, but Marik manages to open his eyes fully, to the darkened sky above him, and the odd, gray clouds tinged with purple, to know that something in not quite right about any of it, least of all with himself. He believes he has buried this part of him long ago, and the knowledge that he didn't succeed wrenches him with guilt and anger.

Feel it, Marik, the voice returns. Hah, and he deigns to call himself the darkness. You know better, don't you?

_Go away!_ Marik screams, and at the same time a pedestrian knocks him in the back with an elbow and Marik stumbles forward, out of the crowd's way and under the protection of a building's awning. His legs are shaking.

The voice obliges, and it is gone. He has the grace to leave Marik with the images as a reminder, along with one final warning.

Marik reaches one hand into his pocket, and withdraws three small pieces of paper. He does not recognize them at first, but his mind prods what little information he knows until the jagged pieces are put together; not quite evenly, but enough for him to see the greater picture. He crosses to the nearest post office, and fills out an envelope. He drops one piece of paper inside, and scribbles the only address he remembers on the front. The others he has forgotten, but this one…_he_ should still be there. _He_ is the only one Marik hopes can be reached, as the others are already in Zorc's grasp.

With shaky hands he hands over the envelope to the attendant after paying for a stamp with the few coins remaining in his pocket. He walks back outside, to the sudden cold air and darker wind. He does not know how he is going to get to Domino, but he knows that he must. The letter will surely beat him there, after all, but its recipient should not be kept waiting long.

The Domino he remembers is hazy like a blurry dream, and he wonders just how it will have changed, now that darkness sits on its throne.

* * *

"Off to work, Mr. Otogi?" The old landlord of his apartment building sits behind the front desk, holding one hand over the mouthpiece of a telephone.

"It's not work if you enjoy what you do," Ryuuji says.

"Sure. All the landlords of the world agree with you." He uncovers the phone, returning it to his ear. "This is a problem for maintenance, not for me! I'll give them a call for you, but you shouldn't expect an immediate opening, they're very busy. These historic buildings, you know, what are you gonna do?" He quickly stifles the mouthpiece again, calling a "have a nice day, Mr. Otogi!" as the front door swings shut.

"Yeah, we'll fix it." The irate voice at the other end shouts something in reply, and the landlord rubs the fingers of his right hand against his temple. "End of the week. Same time your rent is due!" He holds the phone away from his ear at the sudden dial tone. "Huh. Line must've disconnected or something."

He returns the phone to the cradle, sifting through a stack of papers and envelopes before him. One in particular catches his gaze.

"Oh, I forgot to give Mr. Otogi his mail!" He chuckles before neatening the stack, placing Ryuuji's few envelopes on top. "Whatever it is, it'll just have to wait until he gets back."

* * *

Ryuuji opens the door to his shop to a flurry of customers, most shouting as they grabbed at displays and the few products lining the shelves, testaments to the newest and best game to hit the city.

He frowns, suddenly, unsure of why he has thought that. It is new because…that was it. Dungeon Dice Monsters had caught on to the city like a fever, and in his store it was like this every day. At the front of the line to the cash register, two boys fight over a box, each pulling on one end.

"You said we could split it!" the boy with green hair yells.

"Well, that was until I knew that you can't share dice! Go get your own!"

Ryuuji sighs, moving past them to his office in the back of the building. The staff wouldn't get involved until the fists started flying…not that it looked like a punch from the green-haired one would hurt much, anyway.

A folded newspaper and a cup of coffee are waiting for him on his desk when he walks inside the office. He unfolds the paper, scanning the headlines with disinterest. Mugging, arson, crime…the lists went on, detailing more information about just how far the city had sunk.

Once again, the same peculiar feeling overcomes him. Ryuuji knows that the city has always seemed to have been this bad—it is the way things are. It is impossible to sink, then, if it has always been this way. Taking a sip of the coffee to clear his mind, the noise of a pair of pounding fists on the door removes him from whatever sense of calm the coffee had brought.

He opens the door to see one of the boys from before, the one wearing a ridiculous hat.

"Can I help you?" Ryuuji asks.

"Yeah. My _friend_ took _my_ game board—and it was the last one on the shelves. What are you going to do about it?"

"Me?" Ryuuji arches an eyebrow. "You're the one who lost it, pal. And he doesn't sound like much of a friend to me."

"Hmph." The boy tugs on his hat with one hand, clenching the other into a fist. "You got any friends?"

Ryuuji makes to answer _yes_, but for that moment he can't come up with a single face, or a single name to add to the list. There is someone…somewhere…he knows, there just has to be, but their memory seems lost. He remembers a trio of siblings with tanned skin and two pretty girls, one with blond hair and the other with auburn, but his recollections of them are vague. Is there really no one he can call his friend?

"Of course I do," he answers smoothly, "and there's nothing I can do for you. Now hurry along back to wherever you came from, kid."

"Kid?" He abandons his hat-tugging and twists both hands into fists. "You're my age, _kid_. Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't you?" Ryuuji fires back.

"You can't when you're suspended." He sounds almost proud of it. "What's your excuse?"

"I've got a business to run. There's no time for school. Not that it's that much fun, anyway. And it's none of your business." Every instinct screams at him to kick the idiot out of his store, but he manages a thin smile and waves the boy onward as he turns to walk down the hallway. "Come on, I'll see if I have any more in stock. Maybe you'll be lucky and we'll have an advance shipment of the next model. You can impress your _friends_."

His face lights up in a dark grin, but Ryuuji ignores it. "They'll all be so _jealous_," he says. "This is perfect!"

The feeling never leaves Ryuuji that something isn't quite right, but he hands the game to the boy regardless. He marks the price up, because it's new.

* * *

He walks inside his apartment building. The door seems heavier than normal to him. At the front desk, the landlord waved him over, passing a stack of packages and envelopes across the counter.

"Mail for you, Mr. Otogi!"

Ryuuji takes them without a glance at the titles, tucking them under one arm. "Thanks."

"You had a visitor earlier, too," he says. "He was very strange looking, had the oddest hair. I told him you were out." He shrugs.

"…Thanks," Ryuuji repeats. "Take care. And stop reading my magazines."

"I wouldn't dare, Mr. Otogi!"

A thin smile escapes Ryuuji's lips. "Sure. Have a good day."

"Don't count on it. Weather's abysmal," he replies.

Inside his apartment, Ryuuji drops the mail on his kitchen table, moving to open the blinds. Across from him, the face of the abandoned tower stared back, bleak shuttered windows and tarnished metal siding climbing up for more stories than any other structure in the city, even his own Dungeon Dice Monsters building.

He spreads the mail apart, picking through each envelope. Business magazine, bills, more bills, credit card applications, and one letter in a scuffed envelope, the address scribbled in a sloping, unfamiliar handwriting. No return address.

He flips the envelope over, finding no further writing. He opens the envelope and pulls out a single playing card. In the dim light he cannot make out what it says, so he moves to switch on a lamp.

Under the dull yellow light, the pattern becomes clearer. The paper is not a playing card at all, but a thin piece of printed paper the same size. He recognizes it as a duel monsters card, depicting a hulking blue monster. The title reads _Obelisk the Tormentor_.

He stares at the card for a moment. Who would send him a duel monsters card, and why? Ryuuji doesn't know anything who plays the game…does he?

He tosses the envelope back onto the counter, but slips the card into his pocket. It seems important, somehow.

On another whim, he grabs his coat, slipping his arms through the sleeves. Suddenly the room is too stifling, too hot and cold all at once, and he needs a walk to clear his mind.

* * *

Ryuuji walks for barely a block before a hand touches lightly on one arm. He turns to see a man with spiky bone-colored hair, who falls into place beside him.

Ryuuji hesitates for only a moment. "You're…Marik, right?"

"You remember me." Marik doesn't know why he sounds so surprised, or so glad. "I was not expecting that. It's progress, at least."

"What do you mean?"

Let _me_ talk to him, Marik, says the voice. You do not know what to say.

_So you're asking, now? _Marik replies.

No. Simply giving you the opportunity to concede to me.

_Never! I will not let you again—_

You have no choice, Marik. I wish to talk to Ryuuji, and you will not stop me from what I want.

"Speak up, you're mumbling," he says.

"So, Ryuuji." The voice that speaks to him now is slippery and smooth, deeper than usual. The tone makes Ryuuji want to simultaneously draw closer and back away, but he settles for neither as the two glance at one another. Ryuuji slips his hands into his pockets, and the fingers of his right hand touch the corner of the playing card.

"You gave me the card, didn't you?" he asks.

"Marik did, yes," he answers. "Take a walk with me, Ryuuji."

The two walk together, and as they cross the street the air almost feels heavier. Ryuuji raises his head, watching the darkened clouds surround the top of the buildings.

"What's that?"

Ryuuji shivers; not because of the cold, but because of that _voice_. It's so striking and compelling, in that Ryuuji cannot help but answer him just because he asks.

"The abandoned Kaiba Corporation Tower. The CEO's son died, and then _he _died. The company still exists—where do you think half the world's weapons come from?" He laughs thinly, and Marik copies the gesture. "They moved out, though, although the company still owns the building. Strange."

"Yes, it is. You should know, _Ryuuji_"—and he says the name with time and deliberation, all three syllables of it—"that I'm only here because of one reason. _You_." One syllable, but given the same amount of care.

"Marik believes you're the last hope for humanity, or something like that." He shrugs elegantly, rolling tanned shoulders back. "I don't hold such ridiculous sentiments. I just want you to remember me."

"—Remember?" Ryuuji glances at him sharply. "Listen, I don't even know why I'm still talking with you. Get to the point—my time is valuable."

"You remember Marik, but you don't remember _me_, do you? No one does." His mouth stretches into a deep grin, wide and evocative, showing all of his teeth. "Tell me, how did the Kaiba Corporation CEO die?"

"He…he…" Ryuuji searches his brain for the information, and it does not surface. "I can't remember. Heart disease or something—who knows? Who really cares?"

"He fell from a window on the top floor," Marik says with a rich laugh. "The city's most powerful man, and he couldn't stop the force of gravity! How does it feel, Ryuuji—do you consider yourself to be Domino's most powerful man?"

Ryuuji feels another shiver race down his spine. He has never considered that label on himself, but the appeal is strong—Ryuuji Otogi, _powerful_.

"I'll stay away from tall windows, then," he says. "Unless you've got another point to prove."

"How delightful, you haven't changed a bit. Tell me the owner of that card in your pocket and I'll give you another clue."

"Clue to what?" Ryuuji snaps. "I'm getting really sick of these games, so if you'll just be up front with me about this—"

"_Games?_" The voice seems layered, with a dual tone and emphasis on each word. "But I thought you loved games, Ryuuji? Or was I mistaken?"

"You weren't." The words come reluctantly. "But that doesn't mean I'll let you play games with my mind, if that's what you're doing."

"No _games_, only one." Marik leans closer, sharing his knowing smirk. "The card's owner. Remember something _useful_, Ryuuji, and preferably about me. It's so lonesome, being forgotten by everyone. You agree, yes?"

Suddenly, the voice changes again, and the pitch is higher, more even. Ryuuji blinks, but Marik doesn't draw back. "Go home, and don't mention meeting me to anyone. Wouldn't want _them_ to catch on to my plan, wouldn't we?"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Ryuuji asks. "This is crazy."

"No, it's not," Marik answers. "This is the darkness."

* * *

He runs the facts over in his mind, over and over again until he has processed the information from every angle. There is nothing left; Ryuuji cannot make heads or tails of Marik's cryptic verbal garbage.

The card stares blankly at him from the top of a glass coffee table. He can see the carpet underneath, a beige color he's never really liked, and he leans back on his sofa and crosses his fingers behind his head, resting his head on his palms.

Darkness—Marik believing Ryuuji had forgotten something—how ridiculous, he has an impeccable memory…and the card, and the tower…

Ryuuji can just barely see the profile of the building from a tiny split in the curtains of his living room. Beyond, the gray sky is arched through with lightning, and the dull rumble of thunder splits the silence in half. It's making it very difficult for Ryuuji to think.

"Darkness…why is that so familiar?" He taps one finger against the card. "Duel Monsters…I don't know anyone who plays the game. Besides Marik."

The thought occurs to him, then, suddenly. He remembers the barest hints of a duel…who was Marik dueling, then? Their faces are blank, as is his mind.

Blond hair? Blue eyes—he shifts his posture, forehead creasing from the thought and the effort. Marik won all his duels, didn't he? Except one…Ryuuji doesn't know how he remembers this. But he never dueled the blue-eyed man…the owner of the card. The duelist.

Ryuuji frowns, turning the card around again. All this fuss over a piece of paper. No wonder he had more fun with dice.

* * *

A call passes through his extension line the next day, and at the brisk "_Hello, Ryuuji_" he knows that it is Marik. "_Any revelations on your end?_"

"The owner of the card…he had blue eyes," Ryuuji says. "He…wasn't nice…probably a bit like you in that aspect, huh? Want to tell me some more about what's going on?"

"Oh, it's simple. You'll find the next card in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing yesterday, if you haven't found it there already. I don't blame you for forgetting _it's_ owner—I would if I could. Tell me some more about him, and then we'll meet up later so we can talk more about _you_."

Just hearing the voice without a face was maddening. "Don't you _dare_ hang up—"

A dial tone is the only response. Swearing, he slams the phone back into the cradle, turning in his chair to dig his fingers into the pocket of his jacket. They emerge clutching a similar card, with a red dragon splashed across the front. Slifer, the card reads.

He reaches for the phone again, pressing the necessary buttons to redial the last number. A satisfied smile springs to his lips when Marik answers.

"I through playing by your rules," Ryuuji says. "I thought I'd already established that. You want to talk to me, you do it to my face, and you answer my questions, not give me more of your own."

"And the card's owner?"

"—Was a friend of mine," Ryuuji improvises.

"You could say that about them all, couldn't you?"

"Not you, though, right?" Ryuuji waits for the response.

"How cruel. Very well. We'll meet for coffee—I believe there is a place you like just around the corner from your building. One hour, please."

"How did you—"

Once again, a dial tone is the only response.

* * *

Ryuuji drums his fingers along the wooden veneer, staring at the cup of coffee in front of him. He's not thirsty, but the waitress was cute, and she talked him into buying a larger size with some extra caramel or something, he wasn't paying attention. He takes an experimental sip, finds it not half-bad, and continues drinking. Before he can set down the cup, someone slides into the chair opposite his.

"Ryuuji Otogi, is that right?"

Ryuuji tilts his head, analyzing the strange, poorly-dressed man with white hair. "Yes. Who's asking?"

"Simply a representative of a group with…marginal interests in _your_ interests—the Egyptian? Ringing any bells?"

He simply stares blankly back, taking another sip of coffee. "No. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then the card in your pocket…you won't mind if I take a look at it, will you?" The way the man's eyes gleam is unsettling, but Ryuuji gives him his best innocent expression as he turns the pockets out, showing the stranger absolutely nothing—not even a coin or some lint.

"Satisfied?" He grasps the coffee cup and stands. "If we have nothing further to discuss…?"

"For now. Watch yourself, Ryuuji," he says.

"Mmhmm," Ryuuji hums. "I do. I look good, don't I?" He doesn't wait for a response, leaving the stranger behind, glaring at him through the swinging doors of the coffeehouse.

* * *

Marik is waiting for him inside his building's elevator. Ryuuji can barely contain himself as Marik reaches over to press the button for his floor, giving him another of those infuriatingly smug little grins.

"You might as well keep that card," Ryuuji says. "I don't want it back. You didn't have to steal my wallet, though."

"Had to buy myself a drink," Marik answers casually.

The doors open, and Ryuuji walks down the hallway and jams his key into the lock, twisting it with more force than necessary. He doesn't invite Marik in, but he follows after him anyway, giving the living room a quick glance before dropping himself onto Ryuuji's usual seat in his black leather sofa.

"Who was that?" Ryuuji asks.

"You knew him, once," Marik responds. "He knew you, that's why he's treading so cautiously. He doesn't know how much you know. Which is a rather disappointing amount, I must say."

"Why do you even care?" Ryuuji finds himself spitting the words back at him, pacing across the floor, unwilling to sit next to him and unwilling to drop himself into the only other available chair, immediately to Marik's right.

"I do not. I simply wish to be remembered." Another narrow grin accompanies it. "It's rather sad to think that no one remembers my _accomplishments_—"

"Just tell me whatever it is," Ryuuji says. "Now. Or get the hell out."

"It's a long story. Might as well make yourself comfortable."

Exhaling sharply, Ryuuji sits in the low armchair, watching Marik as he props his feet on the coffee table.

_Let me speak to him. _

Ask politely, Marik, he replies, and maybe I'll consider it.

_You're not the one in control here_—on this Marik is firm. He will not relinquish full control, not again, not after what happened the first and only time. _I've learned from my mistakes_.

So I am a mistake, now am I?

_Yes—what else could you possibly be? I am taking back what is mine, and you will not stop me_.

He is gone, and Marik straightens again, removing his legs and feet from the table as he begins to speak. Ryuuji listens, as patiently as he can manage, while Marik spins a fantastical tale of a card tournament on a blimp, the strange, magical powers of seven different Egyptian artifacts, and an ancient Pharaoh that faced the ultimate adversary.

"How can darkness be a person?" Ryuuji interrupts once. "And—just to make sure I've got this straight—these things have magical properties? And you're completely serious about all of this?"

"Yugi, and Jonouchi, Seto, and Tea…all of them, really—Zorc has them all, sealed up inside of that building." Marik gestures to the window, where on the other side of the curtains, the old KC tower would be visible. "The Millennium Items use Zorc's power—that's why he's used them on _everyone_. The Rod and the Key, to make everyone forget. The Scales, to turn humanity into the depraved fools that he wants them to be. The Eye to keep them all in the shadow realm! Don't you see—with them all gone, you were the only one left that I could reach out to! We must save them!"

"You described Zorc as this _ultimate darkness_." He puts air quotes around the words. "What makes you think I want to go up against something like that? What makes you think we can _win_? I deal in games, Marik—I know the odds. We haven't got a snowball's chance in hell."

"I just wanted you to remember," Marik says, his voice softer than before. "It's so lonely, being the only one to know the previous world—"

"I _do _remember most of it, now," Ryuuji asserts, "which is why I'm wondering why you decided to leave out the part in your story where your psychopathic other half tried to destroy my friend's lives. That's pretty major to leave out. Or how about the part where, again, that _murderer _invited himself into my life, and he's never once apologized for any of his actions—"

The hand that reaches out and grasps Ryuuji's throat does so suddenly and without warning. The malice in Marik's eyes is darker than anything Ryuuji has ever seen before, and he gasps for breath as Marik tightens his hold. Swiftly, Marik releases him, clutching the same arm to his chest.

"Ryuuji…I'm sorry. I'm still fighting him for control. Ever since Zorc's ascent to power, _he's_ been back. The Items could only work on me, you see, not him, because my mind created him." A weak laugh follows. "He showed me the truth, and I immediately tried to reach out to the only other person I knew who was in Domino who I knew. If we can't stop Zorc, we've got to get people to remember."

"Impossible," Ryuuji says. "What could be strong enough? We have nothing to fight back with. We have no firepower—he's got Yugi!"

Marik nods slowly. "There's nothing good that can match him."

Ryuuji reaches out to Marik, questioning fingers touching his arm lightly. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Maybe we don't need something _good_ to match him—maybe, we just need something _evil_."

"You're hardly suggesting—"

Ryuuji nods in response, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Marik's still-shaking hand. The fingers tighten around his own in response, and he wonders for a moment who is still in control of the digits.

"I won't lose control again," Marik says. "Who knows who I'll hurt this time. And he won't do it."

"Speak to him," Ryuuji insists. "Is there anything he would do it for?"

"Useless. Even if he could, he wouldn't save the world for us or for anyone else. He'd watch it burn from the front lines." The fingers in Ryuuji's grasp squeeze his own slightly, and Ryuuji presses back.

"Then let _me_ talk with him again. This time, I'll know it's him." Ryuuji tries to withdraw his hand, but the fingers only clench tighter around his own.

"Not so different from before, is it, now that you know?" The voice returns, the same syrupy sound that he has gotten so accustomed to hearing. It's the voice that smoothly controlled and swayed the minds of hundreds, even without the power of the Millennium Rod.

"I always play the odds. How about a game of chance?" Ryuuji stands and Marik releases his fingers. The feeling soars back into them, and the skin feels tighter than before, itching with heightened sensitivity. From a drawer in the entry hall, he removes a pair of dice.

Returning to the armchair, he tosses the dice onto the table. They come to a stop at 4 and 3.

"How original," Marik comments. "Let me guess—roll a certain number, and you win my assistance?"

"That's correct."

"I was right! I won that much—how exciting!" The heavy sarcasm is laced with amusement. "What do I get if I win, hmm? What are the stakes? It's _your_ game now, Ryuuji. Make it count."

"Even—I win. Odd—you win. Name your price." He picks up the dice, prepared to roll again. "We'll leave it to chance to decide the fate of the world."

"Oh, it's always been to chance," Marik muses. "I want something from you."

"Name it," Ryuuji says. "Money, possessions—"

Marik laughs dryly. "Oh, nothing is stopping me from tying you up and stealing every cent you own, if that is what I wished. I want something a bit more—"

He stops, suddenly, eyes lifting to the ceiling in thought. "Marik has just made the most impressive wager. He has placed the control of this body on the line. And I accept. Roll the dice, and we'll see where they fall."

With a snap of the wrist, Ryuuji sends the dice skittering over the surface of the table, where they come to a slow rest, one landing center at two, the other arcing past, finally settling down with five black dots visible against the surface of white.

Ryuuji feels something within him fall at the results, falling deeper within him than he thinks there is space to fall. On the other side, Marik's jubilant grin outshines the gleam in his eyes, the look of absolute victory. Ryuuji imagines it could be the look Zorc had worn when he realized that he had won.

He had lost Marik his control…there had to be a way to regain it.

"Double or nothing." The words sneak their way out of Ryuuji's mouth before he can contain them.

"Why—excuse me?" The dark voice treads dangerously around him, filling up the air with its weight in a way it hasn't before. It's more confident, and rightly so. "What could I possibly gain from that?"

"Like I said—double or nothing," Ryuuji repeats. "Another roll. If I win, Marik regains control and you help us confront Zorc. If you win, you get to keep Marik…and me."

"You?" The laugh that follows is his most impressive yet, but Ryuuji doesn't flinch. "Whatever would I want with you?"

"You tell me," he says bluntly.

The full force of Marik's gaze is turned on Ryuuji, and Marik leans in closer. "You couldn't _imagine_ what I would do." He leans back. "A trophy and a _consolation_ prize. How _nice_." The smirk that accompanies is anything but.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes. Roll the dice." There is no hesitation.

Ryuuji picks up the dice and rolls them again, willing with every part of him for the numbers to land even. The first to fall is a four.

The second die spins, twisting on its point before solidly landing on six.

"Ten." Ryuuji breathes again, feeling the rush of the best returning in full force. "That means I win. Tomorrow, we go to challenge Zorc and Bakura."

"Then tomorrow we go to die," Marik says flatly. "Then where will your hope be?"

"Right now, it's with you," he replies. "Make it count." He derives a strange satisfaction from throwing Marik's own words back at him.

"You can sleep on the sofa if you like," Ryuuji continues. "Or the floor, I don't care. Blankets are in the closet there." He gestures down another hallway before turning to leave. "Otherwise, I'll see you in the morning."

"It's a shame I never got to give you the final clue," Marik says, pulling a third card from his pocket, placing it down beside the dice on the table. The coloring is yellow, of a large dragon with outstretched winds.

"The Winged Dragon of Ra," Marik reads. "Tell me, who is its owner?"

"You," Ryuuji answers. "Its owner is you. Goodnight."

* * *

In the darkness, Marik cannot see anything past his own outstretched hand, but he knows where every object is in the living room. In his mind, what fragmented pieces had splintered in Zorc's new world had grafted together, trying to repair themselves, but there was not much to repair, not when the complete state was already broken to begin with. The Pharaoh had restored him before, and he was currently unavailable.

I'm taking full advantage of that, the voice speaks up. I play the odds, too. I don't like to lose.

_Then defeat Zorc, in whatever way you can_.

Hah! What humor, what optimism! It doesn't become you, Marik. If there was a way to defeat the darkness, they would have found it.

_Perhaps your darkness can find other means? Through the Items?_

It's a start, but a thin one. He'll know we're coming, with the Necklace. Don't be an idiot.

_I'm not_, Marik replies. _The Items can only sense my mind—they do not affect yours, remember? Because I created you_—

The voice is deadly flat, laced with his own gratification as he interrupts.

You do realize, Marik, he says, that in order for me to accomplish this that you will have to give up your control to me? You can't do it. You wouldn't—what guarantee do you have that I won't keep it forever? That I won't lock you out and instead use this freedom for _my _ends?

_I have no guarantee other than your honor and your word_, Marik tells him.

I did not give _you_ my word, he says.

_No, but you gave it to Ryuuji. I'm hoping that means something_.

Last time I make a bet with him. He and the Game King are the only two to ever defeat me. How ironic.

_Defeat Zorc. Save this world_.

Do not make me laugh. There is nothing in this world I would like to save.

_If Zorc wins, he'll take everything that otherwise could have been yours. I'll give you control, right now. Use it well._

I'll be on my best behavior, he says.

Slowly, Marik rotates his hand, still outstretched, feeling the way his fingers react to his every mental suggestion. There is no worse feeling in the world than being buried inside one's own mind, but he must relinquish control. He has to. There is no other option.

* * *

The Kaiba Corporation Tower's doors are unlocked. No one on the street pays them any attention as the two walk inside. The lobby is dark; all the light-bulbs have burned out, and leaves and dust are scattered across the marble floor.

"What are you going to do?" Ryuuji asks, his voice quiet.

"Why is it always up to me?" The hard voice is unmistakable, but Marik shrugs his shoulders back once again as they head for the elevators. "At least you came to the right source. You know what they say—if you want something done right—"

The doors open with a _ding_. Inside, Marik presses the button for the top floor. "You look like you're about to be sick," he comments. "I suppose I could offer you words of encouragement, but they would be hollow and meaningless. Would you like to hear any?"

Ryuuji finds himself choking out a laugh, turning puzzled eyes towards Marik. "No, I really don't."

"Some sentimental drivel? Perhaps a kiss for luck, then?" He pauses. "You've got a surplus of it, it seems."

Ryuuji misses his mouth by a quarter of an inch, but his kiss falls on the corner of Marik's lips, pressing insistently for a second before withdrawing. As soon as it is over, he wishes he hadn't done it, hadn't risen to Marik's bait.

"This was a mistake," Ryuuji says quickly. "I shouldn't have…"

"A mistake, now am I?" The words are barely audible, spoken through his breath, but Ryuuji picks up on them instantly.

"Of course not—I still believe that Zorc needs to be stopped, and…we're the best that's left." He lets the words dangle in space, waiting for anything other than the steadily climbing numbers on the digital display above their heads, just passing thirty and rising.

"You wanted someone to remember your…_accomplishments_, you said?" Ryuuji allows himself this one final attempt. "Then let them remember _this_." He grins. "You can never let them forget who had to save their lives."

"I am not a hero," Marik says. "I won't be, even for you."

"Then don't." He shrugs. "I don't mind anymore. Like I said, we're the best that's left."

The doors open. To their left, a large wooden desk takes up half the wall; the seven millennium items are set on its surface. Darkness is everywhere; gray, dark clouds tinged with purple seem to climb up the windows, seeping in through every crack, but Marik reaches for the Millennium Rod. An expression somewhat like peace comes over his features as his fingers grasp the metal.

"What is it they say?" Marik repeats, caressing the surface with his thumb. "If you want something done right—"

"—You have to do it for yourself." From the shadows, Bakura finishes the sentence. He walks forward, and behind him Ryuuji can just barely make out a huge, hulking figure made of shadows from beyond the windows, and a line of bound figures against the wall, unmoving. Without confirmation he knows who they are.

"Will Zorc be joining us?" Marik asks, in a mockery of politeness.

"I _am _Zorc, idiot," Bakura replies. "We _are_ one and the same—we _are_ the darkness. You could not even begin to compete."

"The darkness leeched out of humanity versus the darkness of a single human mind?" Marik laughs, and the dagger within the Millennium Rod springs forward. The blade is sharp. "I had a thought, just now."

"Do tell, by all means," he says.

"If you _are _Zorc, as you say, then I wonder what damage harming his vessel would cause to him?"

For a second, Ryuuji can see Bakura's eyes widen as he realizes the intent behind those words. In that same second, Marik rushes forward, leaping through the air as his arm makes a swift arc with the dagger. The point strikes, breaching Bakura's side as the darkest blood Ryuuji has ever seen begins to surround the white cloth of his shirt.

"Did you know," Marik says, almost conversationally, as he goes in for another swipe, "that the Rod is the only Item that is in itself a weapon?" Bakura dodges the next strike. "I'm sure you know."

Another point, this one across his shoulder and chest, and the expression of pain and anger on Bakura's face is so sharply defined that Ryuuji finds himself taking a step back, unwilling to engage in the scene before him.

He throws his hands over his ears to protect his head as all of the windows on the floor simultaneously shatter, shards of glass flying in all directions as the fog pours in like a liquid, spreading across the floor. There is so much swirling purple and gray, it is nauseating.

Bakura falls, and Marik takes one final plunge, leaving the dagger embedded in Bakura's back for a second before withdrawing it sharply. "Die with him, Zorc."

Bakura's body is still, and where the pooling blood touches the fog it pulls back, as if repelled. It dissipates, growing thinner and thinner with each passing second, until there is nothing left of it at all.

"And he called _me_ an idiot," Marik says. "He took on humanity's evil—humanity is comprised of idiots. One man by himself is a genius. There was no comparison."

Ryuuji ignores the body, even ignores Marik for a moment, rushing past them to the rows of the people he remembers clearly now, leaning against walls or each other in unconsciousness. He reaches Yugi first, and unties and ropes that bind his wrists and ankles. In a minute he is free. Ryuuji checks his pulse; it is strong.

The others are in a similar condition. Marik's earlier words echo in Ryuuji's ears—these here were the trophies. The two of them were simply the consolation prizes. Their gamble paid off—all or nothing, and they walked away with the whole house.

"Damn it, what happened to the windows?"

"Seto Kaiba, I see that you are awake." Marik's voice is smooth and even, and Ryuuji recognizes it for what it is. He does not understand the disappointment that he feels at not hearing the darker, deeper voice coming from Marik's mouth.

"Ryou…" The second voice is Yugi's, and Ryuuji empathizes with the pain in his voice.

"There was no helping it," Ryuuji tries to explain. "It was…our only choice."

"Thank you, then." Yugi's voice is still weak, but he glances first at Ryuuji and then, uncertainly, at Marik. "For saving our friends."

Honda and Jonouchi have recovered, and the two are helping the others to their feet, embracing their friends in turn. Ryuuji moves closer to Marik, whispering quietly.

"This is becoming dangerously close to…how did you put it? Sentimental drivel."

"I suppose it's unavoidable." The voice that responds is deeper, and Ryuuji is stunned to hear it again. "But then again, I always did have a way with words."

"You're…"

"Marik and I made another bet," he says quietly, his mouth widening into a smirk. "Would you like to know more?"

Ryuuji's lips form a grin of their own that only widens as Marik moves to set the Millennium Rod down in its place in the row with the others on the desk.

"Do tell."

Ryuuji can hear the dice clinking together in his pocket. Perhaps it wasn't chance at all. It doesn't matter, though. He's always been very good at playing the odds.

**End.**

**

* * *

**Notes:

1) Please, if you have any further (or unresolved) questions about this AU, let me know! I tried to make everything as clear as I could regarding the world of darkness that Zorc created for himself after his victory and making Marik's progression seem realistic; if anything remains unclear to you after the conclusion of the story, please continue your thoughts in a dialogue with me. I'd love to hear them!

2) The two towards the beginning of the story in the DDM store are Rex and Weevil.

2) Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I would appreciate and value your reviews!

~Jess


End file.
